


Let the Ashes Fall

by BuckytheDucky



Series: The Breakfast Club [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Smut, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:36:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8319355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckytheDucky/pseuds/BuckytheDucky
Summary: Bucky gets hurt badly while fighting the bad guys with the Avengers, and Clint doesn't take it well.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this idea for a short while (before I finished _Not Going Down Without a Fight_ ), and I finally got it finished! This is slightly PWP, but also not really PWP. There's a plot. Sort of. Somewhere.
> 
>  
> 
> (Technically the fourth instalment of my _The Breakfast Club_ series, but certainly not the last.)

The city is under attack – again. Thankfully, the villains this time aren’t from another realm; they’re just regular human beings with very, very dangerous ideals. Clint supposes that might actually be worse, because it means knowing without a doubt that people _suck_. With a disgruntled sigh, he looses another arrow that knocks out an oncoming floating tank. One of them are definitely not going to end up in Tony’s workshop later, definitely not, no sir, no way.

There’s a loose feeling in Clint’s muscles, even though he’s been letting arrows fly for nearly half an hour and no end seems to be in sight. He’s missed this, the repetition of pulling an arrow from the quiver, nocking it, drawing back, and releasing all in one breath. The time he’s spent away from the field as he recovered from the last mission he went on has been _boring_. He wasn’t even allowed to play with the toy bow and foam darts some kid in Utah sent him for Christmas. So recuperating was the worst.

But now, he’s back, enjoying the flex of muscles that comes from pulling the bowstring and the whistle that sings in his ears as the arrow flies true. Clint even relishes the cuts and bruises his body is accumulating as the battle wages on. Weirdly enough, even JARVIS hasn’t heard of the two groups of baddies who’ve teamed up to wreak havoc on Manhattan. Tony made a lot of noise when they learned of the basically nonexistent identities of the bad guys; Clint’s inclined to agree that going in without any knowledge about what they’re facing? Is the worst plan Steve has ever enforced. At least with the Chitauri, they’d known exactly what they wanted when they invaded (and Loki _still_ sucks for that).But dear ol’ Cap said “Let’s go,” and Tony went along with the plan (still grumbling the entire way, but he followed Steve anyway), which left the rest of them falling in line no matter how reluctantly.

“I swear, I’m gonna petition for a prohibition of using any part of New York in any future ‘Oh, my God, it’s the end of the world, aliens are attacking’ films,” Tony grits out over the comms even as he aims a repulsor blast at a tank carrying a few of the bad guys; they jump off their transportation before it can explode fully. “This is absolutely ridiculous. I mean, New York has done _nothing_ to deserve this kind of abuse.”

“Well, you definitely have the sort of influence to make that petition work.”

“Uh… Thanks, Katniss. Really wasn’t expecting that from you – Behind you, Thor!”

“What, the truth?’

“ _Shit_. No, for you to say the truth as non-sarcastically as you just did.”

“Language,” sighs Steve. “This is still an open comm line, and you know SHIELD records everything.”

Clint fake-gasps, dodging a spray of gunfire from one of the men in a navy jumpsuit. “Oh, goodness me, Cap. You mean to tell me the super-secret intelligence agency is eavesdropping on our conversations?”

“You shouldn’t even be having conversations not related to the fight, Barton.”

“Aw, you love me, Sir.”

Coulson doesn’t respond, but that’s okay. Clint knows he’s the stoic agent’s favourite (even if it didn’t stop the asshole from dying like a fucking martyr then staying away for seven months after his resurrection). Bucky’s voice comes over the comms next, sounding both exasperated and amused.

“Are they _always_ like this, St – Cap?”

And that’s about when everything goes to Hell in a hand basket: Clint smacks an incredibly brave (or stupid) goon in the face with his bow as soon as the idiot finishes climbing the wall to the roof, then he glances in Bucky’s direction. Though Bucky is four roofs down on the other side of the street, in his post on the outskirts of the fight, Clint sees him easily, clearly, which means he also sees seven or eight of the navy-clad bad guys leaping over the far ledge before running as one toward Bucky. Clint’s heart stutters in his chest when Bucky is suddenly obscured from view by thick bodies and swinging limbs. A flash of silver arcs through the air; someone’s screaming, a feral sound full of panic and fear, as Bucky’s body plummets toward the ground. He lands heavily on a tank, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t tell the moron who’s screaming his name to shut up, then he’s flying through the glass of a bank window, followed by another handful of the baddies.

“Hawkeye. _Clint!_ ”

The screaming stops with a loud gasp the second Nat’s sharp voice registers, and Clint realises it was him, _he_ was the one crying out for Bucky to respond, to get the fuck up, damn it, Barnes, _move_. He vaguely hears Steve shouting orders over the haze of panic roaring in his brain. The sight of both Thor and Hulk closing in on the building where Bucky was last seen kicks Clint into action; he lets muscle memory take over as he aims and looses arrow after arrow. He doesn’t even try for non-lethal shots.

The survivors are taken in by SHIELD agents, but Clint remains where he is, frozen by fear and guilt for not feeling guilty over not giving a damn that he now has more blood on his hands. The whirlwind in his head doesn’t settle even as Tony gives Nat a lift and drops her on the roof beside Clint. She lets a handful of arrows clatter into his lap; he shoves them away, allows her to pull him in for the tightest embrace her battered body can handle. He clings to her like she’s his lifeline in a tumultuous sea that’s knocking him about, threatening to consume him. Her voice is soft, soothing, a calm breeze that settles the sixty-foot waves. Her words part the heavy steel clouds obscuring any sense of rationality.

They climb down from the roof together. Thor wraps an arm around her waist, twirls Mjølnir in the air, and they fly back to the Tower. Tony holds a gauntleted hand out to Clint, but Clint ignores it, instead shoving his way through agents on scene. Steve follows easily, calls for him to stop, orders him to go home. Coulson is suddenly there; he places a hand on Clint’s shoulder, and Clint finally stops.

“Go home, Clint.”

“I…I can’t. Bucky…”

“Barnes is already at medical. No, you can’t go, too.” Coulson’s grip tightens, comforting and grounding Clint all at once. “Right now, you’re panicking. It’ll only get worse if you see him in this condition.”

“I need to see him,” whispers Clint, his voice cracks, and Coulson sighs.

“He’s alive, Barton. That’s all you need to know. Captain Rogers, will you please make sure Agent Barton gets back to the Tower?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony pulls him in close, tac gear to metal chest plates, and rises into the air. Clint barely registers the rush of wind, the tall buildings blurring past as they twist and turn toward home. When they land, Nat is already there on the landing pad. She leads Clint inside while Tony flies back to the destroyed part of the city; it takes less than two minutes for them to reach the floor that was renovated specifically for her. Clint allows his best friend to manhandle him into the bathroom, doesn’t stop her as she strips his gear from his body, doesn’t fight it when she shoves him under the spray of the shower.

The water is just on this side of too hot, but the pain of it forces back another wave of _oh, God, Bucky, please don’t be dead, fuck, he’s dead, that’s why Coulson wouldn’t let me see him_.. Slender arms encircle his waist, and Natasha presses her body against his back, holds him as he trembles. He’s terrified. Sure, Bucky’s an enhanced human, a super-soldier with a slightly diluted version of the serum coursing through Steve’s body, but it doesn’t make it any easier on Clint to be without any information. He sucks in an unsteady breath before forcing himself to move. His actions are mindless, automatic, as he washes the dirt, sweat, and blood from his hair and body. Once clean, he leans against the shower wall and watches Nat finish scrubbing down her own body.

It’s been a long time since Clint’s needed to share a shower with Nat, _needed_ the presence of another person more than he needed the oxygen he breathes. In the beginning, when he first placed trust in the redhead assassin, it was purely sexual, no intimacy required – or allowed. They used each other’s bodies for affirmations of life, to release pent-up energy and adrenaline, to feel something other than whatever the op they were on called for. Something changed, over the years, around the time that Clint lost Laura. _This_ is all about intimacy, comfort, a way of sharing the burden of too many emotions.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Nat has a dresser drawer for Clint’s clothes that he never bought. There aren’t many – a couple pairs of boxers, a pair of sweats, and two or three shirts – but it still warms him inside to know she cares enough about him. He never doubts it, there have been too many instances that have proven just how deep her affection ( _Love is for children, Barton, but if I could love anyone, it would be you_ ) for him goes, but it’s always nice to see evidence. He dresses then follows her to the living room. She curls her body around his once they’re stretched out on the couch.

Halfway through _Scrubs_ , he rolls onto his other side and stares silently at her. In true Natasha fashion, she knows what he’s asking without words, delivering the answer with a soft voice and gentle fingers in his hair.

“Coulson told you Bucky’s still alive. That means he is. Coulson would never lie to you about that.” She sighs. “You would’ve made a mess of things if Coulson let you in Medical. Plus, Fury has to make sure he’s still mentally sound, since… Well, you can guess why.”

“He was brainwashed for seventy years,” he mutters in response when she tugs on a lock of his hair, demanding a reply from him.

He slowly falls asleep to JD’s quirky narrative and her hands stroking his hair with tenderness she affords few others.

 

**......**

 

The apartment is too silent when Clint steps inside. He left Nat’s early while she was still sleeping, unable to deal with his rampaging thoughts in the face of her cool logic.

The knit blanket Coulson’s mother made for Clint three Christmases ago is in a rumpled ball on the couch where Bucky and Clint had left it in their rush to join the Avengers. Coffee is in the pot; Clint dumps the cold, stale liquid down the drain and sets about making more. Once he’s poured himself a rather large mug, he carries it to the couch, wraps himself in the blanket that smells so much like Bucky. There was a text on his phone when he woke up, but he ignored it. He still isn’t ready for any potential bad news.

 _Everybody was right_ , he thinks with a bitter chuckle. _I’m nothing but a mess. I’m not even a_ hot _mess_.

He can hear his upstairs neighbour moving around, creaks and thuds sounding with their every step. The sun is bright through the window. The stillness of the flat is stifling. Clint exchanges his coffee for beer then cheap whisky.

 

**......**

 

Clint’s eyes fly open at the sound of a key in the lock. He knows it’s one of three people – and no matter which person it is, the fact that they’re making noise at all is for his benefit. Natasha and Bucky know how to be completely silent in all of their actions because of their training, and though he denies it, Coulson _has_ to have been a master spy in the past six lifetimes. He’s just too damn good at hiding his emotions behind a mask and being all sneaky-quiet.

Clint shuffles down the hallway, blanket draped over his shoulders and wrapped tightly around his body. He aches all over; then again, sleeping in a bathtub two nights in a row probably wasn’t his best idea.He reaches the edge of the living room right as the front door finally opens. The air seems to vanish, and it’s suddenly so damn difficult to breathe. Time is frozen.

“Clint?”

Bucky’s voice breaks the silence, the spell, and Clint is moving before his brain can register this fact. He drops the quilt to the floor and stumbles across the room. Bucky barely manages to get the door shut before Clint’s hands are on him. Clint knows his touches are on the border of manic, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Thankfully, Bucky understands; he lets his weapons bag fall to his feet and stands still as Clint’s hands, fingers, explore every inch of his arms and torso. Nothing feels out of place, so five minutes later, Clint finishes the examination, then pushes close to Bucky. The brunet smells like Medical – sterile, clean, disinfected – but Clint breathes him in anyway. Bucky just holds him tight and whispers soft assurances in Clint’s ear. Finally, Clint pulls back far enough to look into his boyfriend’s eyes.

“Don’t _ever_ scare me like that again. No one would tell me anything, they just kept telling me you were alive but that’s it, and they wouldn’t let me come see you. I was freaking the fuck out, and I couldn’t even see you to make sure they weren’t lying to me.”

Bucky cups Clint’s cheek and runs a thumb gently over the flesh. “Babe, sweetheart, I’m _fine_. No one was allowed in to see me. Not even the shrinks. They sat on the other side of a thick, unreadable wall and talked to me through the intercoms. Doctors were only allowed in when I was sedated and cuffed.” He presses a soft kiss to Clint’s temple. “I wish you could’ve been there, darlin’, but Coulson was right. It wouldn’t have been a good idea. But hey, I’m here now. I’m _here_.”

Clint surges forward and captures Bucky’s mouth with his own. There’s no grace, nothing smooth or sweet about the kiss. It’s hard and rough, awkward, full of heat and the occasional clacking of their teeth. Clint crowds against Bucky, pushing him back until a _thud_ sounds when Bucky’s shoulders hit the wall. _Oh, thank the Gods in every universe for sweats_ , thinks Clint as he slips a hand beneath the waistband of Bucky’s pants. He swallows the low moan from Bucky, curling his fingers around his flaccid cock; within three strokes, it hardens, fills the empty spaces in Clint’s fist. Bucky groans when Clint removes his hand, pushes down the sweatpants, and drops to his knees. Clint revels in the soft hiss of breath, relishes the way Bucky grits out a shaky “Fuck.” He can taste the bitter pang of precome on his tongue and works his mouth faster around Bucky’s length. When his thighs started trembling under Clint’s hand, Bucky cards his fingers through blond hair, shoves his head back gently.

“Slow down, sweetie. We’ve got loads of time. C’mere.” He presses his lips to Clint’s forehead, a tender touch, once Clint is on his feet again. “This isn’t something I wanna rush, and I don’t think you do, either. _Clint_.”

Clint freezes before pushing his face into the curve of Bucky’s throat; a strangled sound escapes him, but he manages to get himself under control enough to whisper, “I don’t, but… Please, Buck, I want this. I need this. I, I need you.”

“Are you sure?”

Clint nods as well as he can against Bucky’s throat, leaving soft kisses on the skin at Bucky’s quiet murmur of approval. He pulls away, allows Bucky to lead the kiss. This time, it’s sweet, achingly gentle, full of promise. They move in tandem toward the bedroom. Clint lets himself be guided down onto the bed; Bucky’s mouth trails along Clint’s jaw, his throat, his collarbone, before he helps Clint to sit up. Clint doesn’t speak, doesn’t think, as his shirt is pulled off and tossed onto the floor. Bucky moves slowly, taking his time as he removes their clothing with care. By the time they’re both naked, Clint feels like he could cry with how slow and oddly _satisfying_ the whole process has been so far. He bites his bottom lip when he feels Bucky’s teeth digging slightly into the skin over his hip; a nearly-inaudible moan shatters the silence, and Bucky shifts, covers Clint’s body with his own, leaning his weight on one elbow.

“Are you absolutely sure? If not, say the word, and we can stop. I won’t be mad or disappointed, anything, okay?”

“Don’t – don’t stop. Please.”

“Look at me.”

Clint opens his eyes and damn near sobs at the undiluted affection and concern in Bucky’s grey-blue eyes. He jerks his chin once, a hand coming up to curve around the back of his boyfriend’s neck. “I’m more sure about this than I’ve been about anything in a very, very long time. I want this more than I want coffee in the morning. Please, Buck, don’t stop.”

His words cause Bucky’s breath to stutter, then they’re kissing again, a deep exchange of words they haven’t said, promises they would kill to keep. Clint stretches an arm out toward the bedside table, but his hand misses its target as Bucky’s lips wrap around the head of his cock. He barely manages to stop the startled shout of _holy fucking fuck_ at the light suction and blissful wet heat. His fingers finally grasp the bottle of lube and box of condoms; he tosses the items to the mattress, hips jerking upwards when Bucky takes him further into his mouth. Clint whimpers at the feeling of his cock hitting the back of Bucky’s throat, of Bucky trailing a finger between Clint’s legs and nudging gently against his tight hole. A startled laugh erupts from Bucky when Clint smacks him in the head with the lube bottle.

“I’m – oh, Jesus – I’m not gonna, fuck, last very long, so hurry it up.”

“Relax, doll, we’ve got all night.”

Contrary to his words, Bucky does manage to slick up his fingers even as he resumes sucking Clint’s cock, his tongue doing a rather sexy twist around the head before going flat as Bucky lowers his head and swallows. It takes all of Clint’s willpower (and a _lot_ of ugly thoughts about dead hookers and kicked puppies – maybe even one or two about Fury) to not immediately come right then. By the time Bucky pulls his fingers free and moves away to roll on a condom, Clint is shaking with anticipation. Heat sings along his nerves, flaring into flames as Bucky pushes inside in a gentle, careful slide. Clint’ body protests minutely but yields. His heart races, his lungs seize in chest with the onslaught of emotions: residual fear and panic, joy, desire, _love_.

Bucky moves slowly; each thrust is smooth, easy. Clint slides an arm around his shoulders and pulls until their chests are touching, until he can feel every rolling movement of Bucky’s muscles against his own, until he can no longer tell where one body ends and the other begins. He lifts his chin, searches for the kiss before it’s even born, and Bucky doesn’t disappoint. Their lips slide together in as languid a pace as their bodies, unhurried even in the face of an inferno blazing higher and hotter between them. Clint loses himself amongst the soft sound of skin against skin, the wet dance of tongues, the flames burning a path along his nerve endings.

He loved Laura, still does in his own way, but what he feels for the man above him, the man who’s turned his world upside down… The depth of his love for James Barnes has consumed him, has twisted and changed the core of him from the inside out. Clint lets the fire eat away at the memory of who he was – the pain, fear, self-doubt – and lets the smoke swirl into solidity to become the foundation of something, some _one_ , better.

With a quiet whimper, he arches up, his head dropping back against the pillows, his whimper turning into a loud, gasping groan when Bucky changes the angle of his thrusts and starts hitting Clint’s prostate every time. Clint digs the fingers of one hand into the sheets below him, clenching a tight fist around the damp fabric, and the nails of the other into the skin covering Bucky’s right shoulder blade. Bucky rests more of his weight on his elbows, lowering his mouth to the taut line of Clint’s throat, and nips gently. Clint can feel the grin against his skin when he bites back a curse at the exploratory scrape of teeth. He lifts a foot to settle in the small of Bucky’s back, right above the gentle swell of his ass, pushing his boyfriend into a faster rhythm. The friction on his cock from where it’s nestled between their sweat-slicked abdomens, the relentless slide of Bucky’s hard length against his prostate, and the sudden sharp pain as Bucky bites and sucks a bruise onto his neck fan the flames of absolute want, until no part of Clint is even flesh and bone but a fire, molten hot and cleansing. He comes on a watery cry of Bucky’s name, his vision whiting out with the force of his orgasm. He hears Bucky muffling the sounds of his own release into Clint’s skin, and feels a blissful fog overtaking his entire being.

“Sweetheart? Clint, what’s wrong? Look at me, baby.”

Clint barely manages a garbled “Wha-?”

“You’re crying. Did I hurt you?”

He’s _crying_? Clint raises a hand to his face, fingers trembling as they swipe at the tears streaking down his cheeks. Huh, weird… He rolls onto his side and curls up against Bucky.

“Ya gotta talk to me, Clint. Did I hurt you or somethin’?”

“No. It was perfect. I’m fine.”

Bucky, thankfully, doesn’t question him, just pulls Clint close for a few minutes, then gets up to grab a washcloth from the bathroom. Once they’re both cleaned up, Clint buries his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck and breathes him in deep.

The roaring fire from before has died down, now just smouldering remains in the aftermath; he can still feel the heat of their union simmering beneath his skin, leftovers of the waves of overwhelming love that he never expected to feel again. He nuzzles closer and smiles sleepily. He feels burnt up, blissfully warm and sated, tendrils of smoky contentment seeping through his bones.

Bucky presses a tender kiss to his damp hair, sighing out a soft “I love you”, before they both fall asleep surrounded by messy sheets, bright sunlight, and the ashes of who they used to be.


End file.
